


Sleeping Arrangements

by doomcanary



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 17th century inns have very thin walls, Aramis is a man slut, M/M, copious masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharing beds is just how it's done when it's 1625. But different bedfellows make for different nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> Because people in the 17th century had wayyyy less privacy than we-the-fandom seem to think they did. Oh, also - apparently in the original book, d'Artagnan is a "poor young nobleman". I should probably read those things sometime. In my headcanon, though, d'Art is just a Gascon farm boy. It was a very decent farm, just not a posh one.

_1: Meaux, près de Paris_

 

Athos can hear low voices and laughter through the wall; the clump of a boot as it hits the floor, a curse and a creak of the bed as whoever took it off loses balance and sits down hard. The other boot follows a while after. D'Artagnan is an endearing drunk, Aramis a flirtatious one; he can picture them muzzily shoving and teasing each other, dishevelled from wine and ineptly shed clothes.

Soon enough the creaking and bickering dies down and silence returns. Now the picture in Athos' mind is of them asleep, faces turned toward each other in the light of a forgotten lamp; D'Artagnan is beautiful, possessed of the same unconscious grace as Aramis. Even collapsed in the stupor of drink both of them lie as if arranged by artists. Perhaps they will wake face to face, their breath mingling like brothers.

A series of short, sharp moans interrupts his reverie; the voice is D'Artagnan's. Oh Aramis; never can you close your eyes without some sort of comfort, woman or man. D'Artagnan murmurs something and Aramis's lighter voice answers; they shift and the bed creaks. Lord knows every soldier has blamed it on the drink once in a while; Athos hopes the Gascon won't be too embarrassed in the morning. He envies him the sight of Aramis coming, that perfect body caught in its moment of release.

Porthos grumbles in his sleep next to him. Athos reaches out a hand, and throws the nearest object at the wall. Musketeers should mind their manners.

 

Later Porthos wakes, the room still dark, to a feverishly hot hand upon his chest. He turns his head and in a sliver of moonlight sees Athos' intense gaze fixed upon his. He smiles, rolls on top of Athos and pins him roughly, before thrusting a hand between their bodies to find him already painfully hard. As he jerks them both Athos bucks and writhes beneath him, neck taut and mouth open in silent gasps. It puts him in mind of something people in the Court used to say, the ones who were dark-skinned and different like him. “A man who has no-one to tie him up should not go mad”.

Porthos presses a kiss to Athos' jaw, sticky heat between their bellies, before he pulls away. Everyone needs to lose it once in a while.

 

 

 

_2: Rambouillet, en route vers Chartres_

 

D'Artagnan is exhausted. His horse is a lovely animal, eager yet well-behaved, but long days on the road wear every man down. He collapses next to Porthos, who slits open an eye and gives a companionable nod.

“Put the candle out,” D'Artagnan says wearily. Porthos licks his fingers and pinches the wick.

 

Dawn is glowing in streaks through the shutters when he wakes; he is smiling before he has even opened his eyes. Some part of him will always be a Gascon farm boy; this is right, to wake with the dawn and see a day's good work ahead. He hears a cockerel crow somewhere. Porthos is a warm weight next to him; they are fitted comfortably against each other, an acre of space left empty in the bed. They could all have slept here. He wonders if Porthos had brothers, sisters; if like D'Artagnan he misses the comforting press of bodies in the night. D'Artagnan had never had a bed to himself before lodging with the Bonacieuxs.

Porthos shifts, and – sweet Christ. That can't be his cock. It's immense. A snort of breath later and Porthos is awake; though he sleeps like the dead he wakes the moment anything is ever amiss with the people around him.

“What?” says Porthos.

D'Artagnan clears his throat, and glances down.

“Ar. Sorry.” Porthos rolls away, relaxing instantly.

“That's, er... impressive.”

Porthos turns back to grin at him. “What can I say?”

D'Artagnan chuckles. He's missed having brothers like this.

 

 

 

_3\. Châtillon-sur-Loire. Juillet._

 

Aramis has always enjoyed the nights when he shares beds with Athos. Even drunk (as he often is) the man has a dignity about him; Aramis likes to lie next to his peaceful stillness. Ironically enough it reminds him of how it felt to sit in his local church and watch the abbé. He knows Athos must be a nobleman; between his fine manners and the shock he had tried to conceal when he realised he was expected to share beds with his fellow musketeers, Aramis can tell he is used to very different things.

Still, he has come to see himself as equal to them.

Aramis's cock is, as ever, hard; it lies on his belly, expectant and unashamed. Quietly he slips a hand around it and strokes himself. He's close to coming when he catches the difference in the cadence of Athos's breathing and knows he's awake; he freezes momentarily, embarrassed.

“Please go on,” says that precise and arid voice.

Aramis turns his head, feeling himself flush; Athos rolls onto his side and props his head on his elbow, eyes raking Aramis from head to toe.

Dear lord, he actually wasn't being sarcastic. Aramis hadn't been sure he could genuinely do that. He's about to make a quip to that effect, but Athos looks down at his hard cock, eyes greedy, then up at his face. The veiled lust there sends a shiver through him. He tightens his hand on his cock and very soon comes.

Athos does not move a muscle to touch him, even as he lies there sheened with sweat, his belly heaving as he catches breath again. He is amazed. Aramis is neither modest nor proud – he simply knows he is beautiful, and that other people find him alluring enough that they often can't help themselves. Athos has more than simply manners; there is steel in him. As if Aramis should be surprised, having fought alongside him so many times.

He turns his head to look Athos in the eyes; still that intensity, still the lust, all still as stone. Aramis shifts forward, ghosts a fingertip down Athos' side. His cock, obscured under the volume of his nightshirt, is hard as his eyes – and he does not flinch when Aramis touches it. Aramis slips his hand under the shirt's hem and encloses it. Elegant and lean, just like the man. He looks back into those stunning, aquiline eyes and moves his hand.

Athos barely breaks his devouring stare, even as the flush creeps up his skin and he begins to shift, small half-involuntary thrusts into Aramis's hand. Only as he climaxes does his head fall forward, veiling his eyes.

Aramis gently withdraws, wipes his hand on the sheet and waits for Athos to look up again. He doesn't; and Aramis sees tension in his shoulders. He sets a finger to Athos' chin; Athos shrugs him off and looks away. Ashamed.

Aramis tuts, puts his back against Athos, and unceremoniously pulls the older man's arm over his side. He keeps their fingers laced together until Athos is asleep.

 

Musketeers should have manners, after all.


End file.
